


God Shave the Queen

by citizenjess (givehimonemore)



Category: Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Bail's Brandy Snifter Collection, Bail's Dubious Consent, Bail's Smoking Habit, Breha's Vaginal Rejuvenation, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Multi, Obi-Wan's Even More Dubious Consent, Padme & Boxed Wine Equals OTP, Padme's Handmaidens-cum-Handlers, Padme's Vagina's Name is Petal, Roger Smith is Padme's Spirit Animal, Shaving Miss Padme, Wacky Hijinks Abound At The Outlander, Waxing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 17:23:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givehimonemore/pseuds/citizenjess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bail doesn't dignify that with a response either way, hoping against all hope that Padme will simply trip over the arm of her couch or something and pass out, and/or will forget, somehow, that she ever planned to come downstairs this evening in order to have her long-time friend and co-worker, Bail Prestor Organa, trim, and subsequently wax her sniz."</p>
            </blockquote>





	God Shave the Queen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenhandmaidensenator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenhandmaidensenator/gifts).



> Written for Jen/queenhandmaidensenator as part of a small get-well-soon gift collection/bonanza for her on Tumblr (posted alongside some truly lovely pieces of 'fic/art from lady-anakin-skywalker, thishereanakinguy, jedi-steel, and okeefekenobi), because who the fuck else would even read something like this, seriously. Implied Bail/Padme, Bail/Breha, Bail/Obi-Wan, Anakin/Padme, and Anakin/Obi-Wan (phew!). Warnings: Bail’s dubious consenting to, er, waxing Padme’s sniz? Also, some lightly implied/joked about Obi-Wan/Anakin dub-con. Rated M. 3,122 words (I HAVE NO IDEA WHY/HOW).

He hears the (unfortunately, familiar) stage-whisper at approximately seven in the evening, Coruscant time, because he makes the mistake of standing on the balcony of his, for all intents and purposes, bachelor pad, inside the posh upper echelons of 500 Republica, reserved only for politicians of the highest caliber, or at least those with the biggest bounties on their heads outside of the Core Worlds, hoping to steal away from a mountain of paperwork that he's brought home from the office for the weekend for a quick cigarette. "Psst," the offending noisemaker hisses, and then, louder: "PSST! Hey! HEY! Bail! BAIL BAIL BAIL BAI-"

"Hi!" Bail throws his greeter a bone, knowing that this will go on interminably if he doesn't eventually acquiesce, and also knowing that he's not far drunk enough yet to put up with the same greeter continuing to go about trying to get his attention for another galaxy-knows-how-long. 

Fortunately, Padme Amidala doesn't seem to notice the vaguely irritated note in her fellow Senator's voice, probably because she is, in fact, plenty tanked, having started pre-gaming far before a person far more respecting of their lofty position (not to mention, living quarters) would think was okay. "Hiii," she adds, and Bail imagines that she's probably waggling her fingers at him, even though he can't possibly see her doing it. "Tsk, tsk," she says in a somewhat babyish voice, and Bail is pretty sure she's doing duckface now. "Breha's not gonna like it if she knows you're smoking again."

Bail takes a long inhale of said 'smoke' before answering, willing himself not to sigh, loudly. "I don't smoke a lot, just to take the edge off after a particular long week." He pauses and sucks down more of it, making a mental note to tell Sheltay to order more of those e-cigs from that infomercial that aren't the same but if he squints, they kinda sorta feel like they're the same when she comes in on Monday morning. "This has been one of those weeks," he adds a moment later.

"Mmm," Padme says, and it's not obvious whether she's listening or not. A moment later, however, she makes another sort of meandering sound, and then follows it up with, "I need help."

Bail finishes his cigarette, reluctantly resisting the urge to grab up another one. "Oh?" he asks, and slightly dreads where this is going - but only because, well, he's pretty sure, given the specific lack of handlers (handmaidens, Padme calls them, but Bail is one of few people who knows that they routinely pull double duty to properly care for the former Queen of Naboo) in the vicinity, that he's been put in this precise situation before.

Sure enough: "I'm gettin' gross down there," Padme giggles girlishly, and Bail wonders if she's going to smell like boxed wine as badly as she did the last time this happened to him, and also whether she'll try to kiss him again. "I think it's time for your expertise, Senator." She pauses, gurgles a little, and then says, "I'm comin' down, hold on." A moment later, a slip of a garment (light purple, maybe a robe, perhaps a nightgown that has been removed from Padme's body by its very wearer, or perhaps Senator Amidala is simply dangling now off of her own balcony. "Catch me," she orders, sounding both authoritative, and yet completely smashed at the same time, and Bail's spine straightens in alarm. "Just kidding," she snorts, and the corner of robe disappears anew. "I'll take the stairs," she announces; and then, before Bail can even react, "hahaha, yeah, right, I'm totally gonna take the elevator." Bail doesn't dignify that with a response either way, hoping against all hope that Padme will simply trip over the arm of her couch or something and pass out, and/or will forget, somehow, that she ever planned to come downstairs this evening in order to have her long-time friend and co-worker, Bail Prestor Organa, trim, and subsequently wax her sniz.

The first time had happened under similar circumstances. Padme, lushed up and left alone - Bail supposed that even handmaidens-holders got evenings off at times, but all the same, he wondered what it would take for the lot of them to rotate evening and weekend shifts - had sashayed her way into Bail's living space and, taking advantage of the notion that Bail appeared, at least, to have nothing better to do, had proceeded to sprawl herself across his expensive, imported, endangered species-donated rug, until Bail had realized that the only way to get rid of her would be to send her away with her wish fulfilled. "You always do such a nice job with your manscaping," Padme had complimented at the time, and Bail hoped against all hope that she meant his facial hair; "and your boots are really shiny," she'd added, and then one thing had led to another and, well, it wasn't difficult work, simply kind of odd; not to mention, off-putting when Padme had switched between yowling intermittently and then bucking and squirming as if the act of Bail ripping hot strips of wax off of the area surrounding her genitals was turning her on. "This is making me hot," she'd proclaimed (of course she'd kriffing proclaimed that), but fortunately, Bail had managed to send her off without anything more untoward happening that night. Then he'd called Breha and chatted with her guiltily for nearly three hours, polishing off an entire bottle of brandy and sitting in his mostly darkened living room coldly and stiffly, as if the mere act of moving would make it perfectly obvious to his wife that, in fact, his hands had very nearly touched another woman's vagina than her own that night. The second time would be different, Bail vows to himself, and then Padme's tell-tale knocking begins, incessantly, until the crowned prince of Alderaan runs a hand through his hair tiredly and pulls open his own front door from the inside.

"'Sup?" Padme asks now; the booze smell is noticeable, but not completely overpowering, or maybe Bail is just used to it now. Carrying a gigantic, purple-and-green makeup case that would look more at place in the hands of a girl half Padme's age, the esteemed Senator of Naboo sprints ungainfully past Bail with surprising speed, dressed, as he had suspected, in a lavender nightgown and matching robe and slippers. Her hair had long ago been taken down from the day's style, though to her credit, it is not yet matted or soiled the way it had been the last time. Mostly, it falls in soft-looking waves down her back and across her shoulders, making her appear younger than she is. He watches as she makes herself at home while he triple-locks the door; bemused, he eyes her pulling several small pillows off of his largest couch, and then watches as she arranges them in small stacks along the same rug she'd very nearly sullied the last time she'd been here in this capacity. Next, she opens her gaudy-looking makeup chest and pulls out, among several other supplies that he recognizes, a pair of small, silver shears. "For your gardening," she giggles, and Bail resists the urge to rub his temples. "'Cause Alderaan is known for its gardening."

"Right." He watches, more transfixed than he wants to be, as she proceeds to then remove her clothing, the slippers and robe first, shedding them in a pile after fighting a little with one of the sleeves because, apparently, it was complicated to slip loose fabric down her arms, and then the nightgown. There's no underwear beneath it, just ... "wow," he says, and blinks, and it isn't like it isn't anything he hasn't seen before, but the sudden nudity, particularly when he himself still hasn't taken off the day's in-office outfit, is still a little jarring. In spite of the shit-show that is Padme drunk, she still manages to pull off an impressively attractive display; nude, her limbs are lithe and her small body nicely proportioned, and while her pubic area certainly isn't gnarled or supremely disgusting, the thatch of dark hairs there is certainly thicker than is the current fashion, or so Bail has heard unwittingly from his fellow Senators, both male and female alike, as well as Breha, whose personal healer, Tion, is apparently quite gifted with something that she often speaks of in reverent tones as "vaginal rejuvenation." 

As if on cue, Padme seems to notice him staring at her, and points at her bush. "Fix it," she orders a little sullenly, and then arranges herself with surprising precision atop and around the small glut of pillows, spreading her legs. "Just sit there," she suggests, but Bail coughed abruptly and then, with the smallest of exhalations, gestures at Padme's side instead. "I'm good here," he says briefly, and she seems to decide this is all right after all. 

The process is simple enough. Trimming the taller hairs comes first; Padme's leg twitches when the shears graze her skin a little - apparently, they're cold and somewhat ticklish - but she stops moving, and in fact, goes out of her way to appear ridiculously rigid and still until Bail, exasperated, tells her that that's not necessary either, just no more wiggling or else he might hurt her accidentally - but soon, the spray of hairs is not nearly so thick, or even as curly. "Better," Padme agrees, running a hand along the outside of her cooze a few times. "Petal is pleased, too."

"Oh," Bail says, wondering how late Obi-Wan Kenobi might be awake tonight, because at least with him, Bail doesn't have to keep a straight face when he asks, "you've named it, then?"

"Yeah." Padme doesn't supply any further information, and Bail finally gives up on getting any, concentrating anew on the most efficient way to complete this sordid task so that he might be left in peace for at least part of the evening. The wax for the main part of the job comes in pre-measured packets that Bail dutifully takes over to his heating unit, drumming his fingers on the countertop listlessly while on his floor, Padme continues to carry on a little. "I'd have Ani do this," she proffers at one point, "but I think he cheats and gets one of his men to do it for him." It once again begs the question of why in the blazes Padme can't order Dorme or one of her head handmaiden's underlings to do this, but, well, the wax has just finished heating up. 

Bouncing the disposable container in his hands (because it's a little hot), he makes his way back to Padme's side, and, gingerly, dips a large, flat wooden stick into the container about halfway. "Ready?" he asks, and Padme nods and, perhaps unwittingly, seems to spread her legs a little wider still. "Any particular preference which side I do first?" he queries, and Padme appears to consider this question seriously for several seconds. 

"Mmm, left. No, right! No wait, I think Petal feels shy, so the left this time. But not every time. Just this time."

"Just this time," Bail echoes, and does as she asks, gingerly spreading the thick, sticky, yellow-ish paste-like substance across the short-shorn hairs across the left hemisphere of Padme's nethers. The ripping is the worst part; he only hopes she won't kick or flail as much this time. "Okay, on three," he tells her, and she counts down bawdily with him, though the "threeaaaauuuugh!" ends as such due to the fact that Bail begins to pull early, not wanting a repeat of the last time when Padme's "WAIT! Petal's not ready yet! It's traumatizing for her, ssshh"-esque exclamations prolonged his torment by at least a half hour. "Son of a Tatooine WHORE!" Padme screeches, and even though it's an oddly specific insult, Bail chooses not to add his own commentary. 

"That hurt," Padme whines, and he nods with vague sympathy, and then waits until Padme stops glaring at him like he had just eaten a live fluff pittin in front of her before attempting side number two. "Cocksucking Neimoidian!" Padme gasps after this particular endeavor has been successfully completed, and then struggles to prop herself on her elbows to see the finished result. "Use the lotion," she wheedles, and Bail acquiesces swiftly, picking up a small bottle of the stuff that advertises itself as a soothing device after these precise sorts of ordeals, and squeezing a dollop onto his palms. With a hopefully clinical touch, he begins to rub it into the somewhat inflamed and newly-waxed skin, and Padme moans lustily at the apparently near-immediate relief. "Ugh, so good," she says, and squirms, and it's not dangerous for her to move around like that anymore, though it is, in fact, putting Bail's hand just a little too close for comfort to her ... "ohhhhhhh," Padme caterwauls suddenly, and Bail's hand darts away like he's been stung, the tip of his thumb a little damp with ... well. "Don't stop," Padme gasps, very obviously aroused now if the slight scent - not to mention, her pert, soft pink nipples, standing happily at attention - doesn't make it obvious, but Bail, torn between wiping his hand on his trouser leg and on his rug, looks down at his own lap guiltily. 

"Sorry," he gets out, and his own face is probably at least as red as Padme's, er, Petal's outermost part. "So there you go," he says awkwardly, and for a long moment, he half-expects the young woman sprawled naked next to him to force him to touch her anew, or, perhaps just as awkwardly, to begin touching herself in that way. And then, for whatever reason, perhaps a single shot of clarity sent directly from the heavens, or simply a low-level deity who feels like doing Bail a favor just for the hell of it, Padme seems to recognize the precariousness of the situation, and simply nods, and then sits up.

"Okay, thanksss." She checks herself over by craning her neck and going a little concave for a few seconds, and then grins at him, albeit a little lopsidedly. "It looks good. Petal is pleased. But ohhh, what about her friend, Alice?" It takes Bail a moment to realize that she's referring to her butthole, at which point he regains control of the situation. 

"I think I heard from Senator Chuchi that she knows a great, er, bleaching spa, on like Corellia or something. You should ask her."

"Hmmm." Padme squints, and Bail takes the time to wish that he didn't know anything about butthole bleaching. "Okay, I'll talk to her," the naked woman sprawled on Bail's floor says, with all the seriousness of someone scheduling a meeting to facilitate the passing of an important piece of legislature in the Senate - which to be fair, was what Padme did earlier today. Still wobbly, she stands and Bail, trying to be helpful, plucks her discarded clothing off of the ground and hands each one to her. "Same time next month, then?" she says breezily when she's, thankfully, clothed again, and Bail stifles yet another sigh as he watches her collect her supplies, now-mostly empty container of wax and all, and even the wax strips, now coated with pubic hairs, as well as making a passing effort at collecting most of the stray ones on Bail's rug, into her makeup tub, forcing it shut after spending several minutes rummaging and rearranging. He wants to tell her 'no,' but opts not to say anything as Padme brushes a hand to his face, patting it the way she would a Nekk puppy. "Thanks heaps," she says, and smiles lavishly, and once again, the effect is marred by her lack of sobriety. 

Bail hurries to undo all the locks before Padme declares it a lost cause or a "wizard's puzzle" again the way she did last time, and Bail has to either carry her back up to her own apartment, or let her sleep in his bathtub again, because he doesn't trust her not to soil on his furniture in this state. Fortunately, the fiddling is short-lived, and Bail watches Padme stumble successfully to the end of the hallway, upon which she presses the same elevator button repeatedly several times and swears at it until the doors part; and then, swinging her arms in the air in triumph, she looks back at Bail and even begins saying something to him, but then the doors shut again and, as far as Bail can tell, the same end piece of bathrobe fabric gets caught anew between them and flaps a little in the breeze as its wearer ascends to the top floor of the building. 

Returning to his own apartment, now blissfully devoid of any drunk Senators except, perhaps, for himself, circa an hour or two from now, Bail slides his commlink from his pocket, beginning to thumb over the touch screen before remembering that the offending digit is yet coated in Padme's dried lady essence. He walks to the sink in the kitchen and washes his hands four times, and then calls the second person in his phone, underneath the person in the top slot called "Petal" (his wife, not Padme's vagina). "Drunk dialing people tonight, are we?" Obi-Wan's voice is smarmy but not legitimately judgmental; he probably wouldn't even mind if Bail smoked a cigarette or five, and so even if he hadn't necessarily been calling Obi-Wan to invite him to come over initially, the idea suddenly seems quite novel. "Hmmm, if I'm not here when Anakin stumbles in from the Outlander later tonight, I might not be privy to his dubiously consented to sloppy sixths, though," Obi-Wan offers, and Bail laughs, feeling the tension from the week at large begin to finally work itself out of his system. "I have booze," he tempts. "Also, a bedtime story about how I apparently have a second calling as a personal waxer to the rich and semi-famous, should I ever need something to fall back on if this whole politics gig doesn't pan out." 

"You had me at 'booze,'" Obi-Wan says. "Give me fifteen minutes." It's enough time for Bail to wash his hands four more times, to change into something less business casual, and also to spritz his living quarters with something that doesn't smell like melted wax or boxed wine, as well as to draw the curtains tight across the double doors leading to his balcony. Finally, when Obi-Wan successfully arrives, Bail turns the commlink off entirely, and leaves it idling on a countertop, vowing to buy Breha the biggest bouquet of her favorite flowers before the weekend is over.


End file.
